


all i want for christmas is...

by coruscatingcatastrophe



Series: echoes in the dark 'verse [4]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, Becoming a family, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flashback fic, Found Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mentions of past abuse, Protective Shiro (Voltron), Teenage Keith
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 08:15:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27967418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coruscatingcatastrophe/pseuds/coruscatingcatastrophe
Summary: “Things change,” Keith says, slowly, to hide the slight tremor in his voice. “There comes a point where I have to take care of myself. You don’t have to try to protect me anymore, Shiro.”“I’m always going to try to protect you,” Shiro says quietly. “You’re my little brother.”—echoes in the dark, ch. 8_____Shiro wants nothing more than for Keith's first Christmas with him and Adam to be a good one. Unfortunately, not everything goes according to plan—but in the end, maybe what matters most about the holidays isn't the gifts that are given, but the trust that is earned.
Relationships: Adam/Shiro (Voltron), Keith & Shiro (Voltron)
Series: echoes in the dark 'verse [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1926937
Comments: 3
Kudos: 62





	all i want for christmas is...

**Author's Note:**

> merry angstmas! because really, what are the holidays without a healthy dosage of hurt/comfort?
> 
> i actually started writing this in november because chapter 11 of echoes was (and still is) being majorly difficult to write. wish me luck guys, it's rough. in the meantime, i hope you enjoy this little special holiday edition to the series :) 
> 
> this one contains spoilers for echoes up to chapter 8 of the story, so if you're here and you've never read any of the first fic in this series, you probably won't understand what's going on? it heavily references some trauma and other events that go on in that one, so...yeah. just so you're aware
> 
> with that said, if you _have_ read up to chapter 8, nothing here is all that new in terms of trigger warnings. however, there is still heavy reference to past rape/non-con and grooming elements, so as always, please read with caution, and stay safe. i love you guys <3

Keith has been wearing the same pair of old, ratty tennis shoes since he came to live with Shiro. 

They sit by the door, his single pair lined up next to Shiro’s dozen—obviously well-cared for, but undeniably worn past their wear. The laces are frayed, there’s a hole beginning to form in the toe of the left shoe, and the soles are beginning to peel away from the bottoms of both. It’s evident to Shiro that they aren’t going to last much longer. Keith needs a new pair of shoes. There’s no way around it. 

Under normal circumstances, Shiro thinks, this wouldn’t really be an issue. It wouldn’t be difficult to simply go out and buy a new pair of shoes for him, or ask Keith if he wanted to go pick some out himself. In fact, these are the very first courses of action that had sprung to mind when Shiro first noticed what poor condition his current pair are in. But the simple reality of this situation is that with Keith, there _are_ no normal circumstances. 

The thing about Keith is that, in the five months he’s lived here, he’s never _once_ asked Shiro for anything. (This isn’t counting when Keith had called him in the middle of the night all those months ago, in tears and _begging_ Shiro to come pick him up. Shiro doesn’t like to think of that night, but when he does, he _certainly_ doesn’t consider driving the five hours it took to get Keith to be any kind of favor or gift to the boy. Especially when he thinks about what he knows now and grimly wonders what the _hell_ happened to bring Keith to that point of desperation.) There are some things Shiro’s given him that he had to accept, solely for practical reasons—his laptop and phone, which he’d still insisted he couldn’t accept until Shiro pointed out he would need them for school. Even then, he’d taken both with obvious reluctance, and though he does use his laptop for school assignments, he only ever touches the phone to reply to Shiro’s texts. Otherwise, it sits unused on his desk; he never even makes a _dent_ in the amount of data Shiro puts on it every month. 

That’s not to say Keith is an ungrateful or bad kid. On the contrary, he’s the direct _opposite._ Yes, Keith’s had a few issues with other students and a couple of his professors since he’s been here, but all those things aside, Keith is a _really good_ kid. He’s nothing like Shiro had expected him to be; Keith’s social worker and the counselors he’d spoken with while going through the process of getting his fostering license had all prepared him for extreme behaviors that so far . . . he’s seen _none_ of in Keith. He doesn’t argue with Shiro, or neglect his school work, or break any of the few rules Shiro had set when Keith moved in. He takes it upon himself to do things that Shiro never even _asks_ him to do: he washes the dishes after every meal before Shiro can get to them; he does his own laundry and keeps his room _immaculate—_ far cleaner than any teenager’s room _should_ be; he vacuums, he mops the kitchen floor, he even _washes the windows—weekly._ Shiro can’t even recall the last time the windows had been cleaned before Keith came to live with him, and now they get washed _weekly._

Shiro’s no psychology expert, but even he can guess that all of this probably stems from Keith feeling like a burden—or at least, feeling like he’ll become one, if he doesn’t do enough. And though Shiro’s tried, on multiple counts, to assure Keith that he doesn’t _have_ to do any of those things—that Shiro is just happy to have him here, that that’s _enough—_ Keith has yet to start truly believing it. The few times Shiro tried to persuade him to sit down and leave the dishes for him to do later, Keith had gotten dangerously close to having a panic attack; Shiro can’t stand to see that kind of anxiety on his face, so most of the time, he chooses to leave the issue alone. There are far more pressing concerns surrounding Keith that Shiro has right now; anyway, he suspects that the only solution that will fix this particular one is time. 

All of this, Shiro brings up just to prove his point—there’s almost _no_ chance that Keith would just _accept_ a new pair of shoes from him, if he tried to give them to him for no reason. Keith would insist that he doesn’t need them, even though he _does,_ and Shiro can just _envision_ the spiral that would send the fifteen-year-old down. Especially considering what happened a few weeks ago—Keith’s been so on edge about _everything._ Shiro doesn’t want to cause him any more anxiety. The problem is, he doesn’t know _what_ to do about this. 

Adam listens to Shiro spill all this out wordlessly, nodding in between sips of coffee out of his _“may contain alcohol”_ mug. It’s caffeinated, which Shiro personally thinks is ridiculous because it’s nearly one in the morning, but by this point in their relationship he’s accepted that this is one thing about Adam that’s never going to change. He and Keith both, actually; they’ll drink coffee at any time of the day or night, and it never seems to affect their abilities to sleep. It’s truly kind of astonishing, and if Shiro wasn’t so concerned about their health, he’d probably be amazed. 

At the end of his spiel, Adam nods once again, adopting his sage _I’m-a-professor-and-I-know-more-than-you_ look, and then he says, “You know Christmas is coming up soon, right?” 

. . . _oh. Christmas._ Shiro abruptly realizes that he had _completely_ forgotten about Christmas—even though at this point, it’s barely a month away. Admittedly, the holidays haven’t exactly been at the top of his mind, lately, but _still . . . How_ had he forgotten? 

“Oh,” he says, and as it processes, he finds himself feeling increasingly guilty. _“Shit._ How could I have forgotten? Especially after I completely _missed_ Keith’s birthday in October. . . .” 

Shiro hadn’t even _known_ Keith’s birthday was in October until an entire week had passed after it—Keith had mentioned it in passing, only to say he was glad Shiro hadn’t made a big fuss over him. He’d been horrified at himself, and _so_ guilty, so he’d gotten dinner that night from Keith’s favorite Thai place in attempts to make it up to him. It hadn’t felt like enough, so he’d asked what Keith wanted; Keith, predictably, had said he didn’t want anything, and when Shiro tried to press, he’d gotten visibly upset. In the end, he’d dropped it with the promise to himself that he’d do better for Christmas. 

And then he _forgot about Christmas._ _Shit._ How can he even call himself an adult? 

“You’re spiraling,” Adam notes, and sets his coffee cup down. It hits the table with a soft porcelain _clink,_ and he reaches across the table’s surface to take Shiro’s hand. “You know Keith’s not mad about that. And you’ve had . . . a _lot_ on your mind, recently. Anyway, forgetting Christmas when it’s still a month away isn’t that big a deal, Takashi. There’s still plenty of time.” 

Shiro knows Adam is right. Still, the pressure he feels in his shoulders doesn’t lessen. These days, it never does. Being Keith’s guardian . . . it’s easy in ways he hadn’t expected, but in others, it’s . . . _so_ hard. Most of the time, Shiro has no idea what Keith needs, or how to help him. He feels like he’s always improvising, and it’s only a matter of time before he screws up irreversibly. But Keith _needs_ Shiro to be the one adult in his life he can rely on. Everyone else has let him down; one of Shiro’s worst nightmares is that he’s going to be just another one to join the masses. 

“I want this Christmas to be good for him,” he quietly confesses. “I . . . I don’t even know where he _was,_ this time last year. And I keep thinking up more and more nightmarish scenarios that he could have been in . . . and I just. I don’t ever want this to be a place where he feels like he’s not welcome, or wanted, or safe. I want this to be his home, Adam. I want him to _know_ that he’s family.” 

“I know you do.” Adam squeezes his hand. “He just needs time. And I know you can give him that, because you’re the most patient person I’ve ever known.” 

“It’s not easy,” Shiro says, even though he knows that Adam is right. _Time, time, time._ Shiro used to think he was a patient person. But now, with more questions coming up surrounding Keith’s past, and _no_ answers coming from the fifteen-year-old, he finds that he’s almost _desperate_ to fill in the blanks. Desperate for Keith to finally feel safe enough to talk to him about these things, so he doesn’t have to carry them around all by himself anymore. Keith is too young to have to deal with everything on his own. Shiro wants to _help_ him. But even when Keith lets him get close, there’s still always at least an arm’s distance between them emotionally. Shiro doesn’t know if Keith will _ever_ let him get closer than that. 

“Yeah,” Adam sighs. “I know it’s not.” 

The clock is ticking steadily towards one thirty, now. Adam finishes the last of his coffee and gets up to pour another cup. He’s said nothing about going home, so Shiro assumes he isn’t—at least, not any time soon. Shiro is grateful. He’s not quite sure he’d be able to handle the silence all on his own, right now. 

With Adam here, it’s not so bad. When he sits down with his second cup of coffee, he immediately reaches for Shiro’s hand again. Shiro takes it, closes his eyes, and lets Adam tether him to the Earth. Without him, he imagines he’d be lost—completely adrift in the dark vacuum of space, terrified, and without any sort of direction or assurance that maybe he’s _not_ going to ruin Keith’s life. 

  
  


_____

  
  


Shiro waits a few days after his conversation with Adam to bring up the topic to Keith. He’s been doing a lot of thinking, and if he’s going to do Christmas right, then he shouldn’t only get Keith something he needs. He should get him something he’ll love, not for practicality, but _just because._ Keith deserves to have the things that he wants; the problem is, Shiro has no idea _what_ Keith likes, beyond what little he’s been able to pick up here and there about music and TV shows—things Shiro can’t really _buy_ for him. 

And motorcycles are out of the question—at least, until Keith is old enough to get a license. So Shiro is completely at a loss. 

Soft piano notes ring out from Shiro’s phone where it rests on a workbench, shuffling through the playlist he has on his phone for Keith. They’re in one of the Garrison’s hangars, working on Shiro’s old, messed-up bike, and Keith is sitting on the floor with a wrench, tightening a bolt. He hums along with the music— _Yiruma,_ Shiro thinks, but isn’t sure—almost too quietly to be able to hear. He looks calm, peaceful in a way he rarely ever does. Shiro thinks there’s no better time than now to bring up the subject. 

So, taking a deep breath, he asks, “What do you want for Christmas?”

Keith drops the wrench. It clatters against the metal floor and rings throughout the room, drowning out the music entirely for a moment. Keith hastily plucks the wrench back up, but refuses to meet Shiro’s eye before turning back to what he was doing. “I don’t want anything,” he says, sounding both hesitant and hurried at once as he rushes out, “Seriously, Shiro, don’t . . . _don’t_ get me anything. You’ve already done enough for me. I’m just glad to be here. I don’t need anything else from you.” 

Shiro frowns at that. “It . . . wouldn’t be any trouble, you know,” he tries. There’s a voice deep within him that says there’s something very _off_ about Keith’s reaction, but he can’t place his finger on what. “Really, I _want_ to get you something for Christmas. Whatever you want.” 

Keith stills. For a moment, Shiro thinks maybe he’s really contemplating the question—but then he looks up, eyes dark, and says lowly, “Shiro. I said I don’t want anything. I _don’t want anything.”_

Shiro clamps down on his next protest before it can think of surfacing. Keith has only used that voice with him a few times, and when he has, it’s always been because Shiro has pressed on a sensitive subject. The last time he’d spoken with him this way was only a couple weeks ago: it had been the morning after he’d found him and Sommers in his classroom. 

That whole night had been miserable. Shiro knows it wasn’t nearly as bad for him as it must have been _nightmarish_ for Keith; he’d locked himself in his room and didn’t come out all night, even for dinner. Shiro and Adam had spent the night making phone call after phone call to their superiors, ensuring that reports were being sent to the right places so that Shiro’s TA would never be allowed near the Galaxy Garrison establishment ever again. There had been far too many hoops to jump through, but in the end, the security footage from the cameras in Shiro’s classroom had been all it took to convince Iverson to take their claims seriously. Watching just those clips made Shiro’s blood _boil._

In the morning, the matter was on its way to being taken care of, and Shiro had composed himself enough so that he could try to get Keith to open up a little more about the situation. But he’d had no luck; Keith snapped that he didn’t want to talk about it, and then refused to say anything more. He hasn’t said a single word about Sommers or anything else that happened to him since then. With every day that passes in silence, Shiro grows more and more worried.

It’s gotten to the point where Shiro’s gone back and combed over every single piece of information in Keith’s extensive file again. Admittedly, he should have been more thorough the first time he’d read it, way back when Keith’s social worker sent him the copy. But between the disdainful curl of the social worker’s lip as she’d told him that after he understood the full extent of his issues, he wouldn’t want to take Keith on, and the sheer _amount_ of information in there to go through, Shiro hadn’t read much beyond a cursory scan. He didn’t need to know about Keith’s years of disciplinary issues or the number of times he’d run away from foster homes to know that he wanted to help Keith and give him a safe place to live. 

None of that has changed—but there’s something he had missed, that first time. It’s only _one_ mention of an occurrence that happened in one of Keith’s placements, _years_ ago, far too easily buried beneath everything that’s happened since then. But it had happened—police reports were made and are on record; charges were pressed. Keith was removed from the family he’d been living with at the time. 

But of all these facts, what might be the most disturbing thing is what _isn’t_ there. There are no mentions anywhere of Keith ever getting the therapy that any child _clearly_ would have needed after such a traumatic experience. All that’s stated is that Keith was moved to a new home, and after that, it never comes up again. Just that Keith’s many counts of running away started up immediately afterward. It’s almost as if everything he went through was buried in the hopes that it would be forgotten—or just so that Keith could be silenced by the authority figures who insisted _he_ was the problem, later. 

It makes Shiro so incredibly angry. _Angry_ isn’t even a strong enough word for what he feels. There _isn’t_ a strong enough word. The system has so clearly failed Keith, and he knows that it’s done the same to countless more children. Kids are vicitimized and then ignored. Labels are slapped onto their files: _troubled, insubordinate, maladjusted,_ but nothing ever seems to be done to _help_ them. 

It makes Shiro feel so, so grateful that he found Keith when he did. He can’t stand the thought of him being lost through the cracks, abandoned and alone for the rest of his childhood. Sometimes he wonders what would have happened to Keith if he never found him. That thought is even worse. 

He knows that something happened to Keith in California. Far more recently than the other—incident, which happened while he was still living in Texas. Shiro thinks there’s someone in San Diego that Keith is _afraid_ of; he doesn’t know if it was someone in the group home or not, but he does know that _someone_ was the reason for Keith being so desperate to get out of there that he’d called Shiro in the middle of the night at the beginning of summer, pleading, _“Please, please come get me, Shiro, I can’t stay here anymore, please, I need your help.”_ The reason why, when he’d been panicked and believed Shiro was angry with _him_ after what happened in the classroom, all he’d been able to say, over and over, was, _“Please don’t send me back there, Shiro, please don’t make me go back to San Diego.”_

Shiro is determined to never, _ever_ let Keith end up in a situation like that again. The very thought that something _did_ happen, and under _his_ guardianship, makes Shiro feel violently sick. 

All he’s wanted, since Keith came to stay with him, is for Keith to feel _safe_ with him. Maybe at first, the only reason for it was the innate empathy Shiro felt for him—he’s always been aware of how _easily_ he could have been Keith; how, if not for his own grandmother’s kindness, _he_ would have been shoved into the system and lost, too—but in the months since Keith’s been here, it’s come to mean _more._

When Shiro looks at Keith, he sees a little brother. _His_ little brother, to protect and love unconditionally, to mentor and act as his shoulder to cry on, to be his support pillar, _always._ Keith should _always_ be able to trust that Shiro will be there for him whenever he needs him. Shiro refuses to let him down again. 

Maybe Keith isn’t to that level of trust yet; but Shiro will stay around until he is to that level, and then he’ll continue to stay, because that’s what family does. And when Keith _does_ feel safe enough with him to talk about the things that happened to him, Shiro will be there with all the support Keith needs. 

In the meantime, though, Adam is right. Time is the only thing that will show Keith that Shiro is worth trusting. Time is the only thing that will _prove_ that Shiro means everything he says to him: that Keith is family to him, and that Shiro is never, ever going to make him go anywhere. Maybe most importantly, he hopes that it will prove to him that he’s _valuable._

  
  


_____

  
  


The new shoes are glossy and pristine: soles an immaculate white, the expensive logo catching brightly even in the poor lighting of the store as Shiro turns one over in his hands. He’s confident they’re the right size; he’d nabbed a look at Keith’s earlier, after he’d gone into his room after school. Still, he’s hesitant to buy them—not because he thinks they’re the wrong size or brand, but because of the look on Keith’s face, burned into his mind as he’d said: _“Shiro. I said I_ don’t want anything.” 

Shiro isn’t sure if he’s doing the right thing or not. He wants to believe he is. He wants to believe that he’s doing something good for Keith; he’s still mostly convinced that the reason Keith lashed out like that is because he doesn’t want to feel like a burden. 

But there’s this quiet voice in the back of his mind, nudging: _it’s deeper than that. You know it is._

The confliction he feels must be mirrored on his face, because after a long moment of watching Shiro silently scrutinize the tennis shoes from all angles, the saleslady prompts, “If these aren’t to your liking, I can see what different pairs we have in the same size in the back, sir.” 

Shiro stares a moment longer, debating—then makes the decision before he can second-guess himself any longer. “No, thank you.” He sets the shoe into the box on the bench beside him and smiles up at the woman. “These are perfect. I think my little brother will really like them.” 

_If he doesn’t,_ Shiro reasons, _I can always bring them back._ But he really hopes it won’t come to that. He hopes that Keith will be able to understand that Shiro doesn’t see him as a burden—that he sees him as _important,_ and that he wants to show him that. Christmas is supposed to be a time to show the people you love how much you care about them. More than anything, Shiro wants Keith to know he cares about him. 

He wraps the shoes that night after Keith goes to bed, then places them under the tree alongside the rest of the presents. Most of them are gifts for himself and Adam, from each other, but there are a couple more they’d taken their best guesses at for Keith. A pair of headphones—Keith likes to listen to music while he studies—, a couple of books by an author Keith likes, some gift cards. Shiro hopes that between them, he and Adam have managed to find at least _one_ thing that Keith will like. 

As he steps back, observing the way it all looks—cheerily wrapped boxes beneath the glittering Christmas lights on the tree, festive and homey and warm—something bright and soft begins to glow in his chest. He can’t help but think of how different everything is this year, compared to every year before. For as long as he can remember, Christmas was just him and his grandmother—and then him and his grandmother and Adam, and then a second celebration the following week with Adam’s family in New York. This will be the first Christmas he’s ever spent without his grandmother, but Keith has woven himself into Shiro’s life so seamlessly that he thinks the absence aches just a little bit less than it would otherwise. 

It’s a little unbelievable, how little time it took for Keith to become so important to him. A year ago, Shiro had no idea he existed. Now, he can’t imagine what he would do with himself if Keith wasn’t here. 

The rest of the days leading up to Christmas are uneventful, in the best way. With no classes for Shiro and Adam to teach or Keith to attend, they fill their vacation days with Christmas movie marathons and copious amounts of hot chocolate. Keith and Adam snark through the Hallmark movies in between rounds of card games on the floor, and Shiro watches them from the couch with that glowing fireplace warmth in his chest. It’s only recently that Keith’s gotten as comfortable with Adam as he has, and it fills Shiro with so much loving _fondness_ to see the two most important people in his world get along that he almost can’t breathe. He doesn’t even mind when they make fun of him for crying during the movies—in fact, that probably has something to do with the tears. 

It’s going to be a good Christmas; Shiro is certain. He can _feel_ it when he wakes up Christmas morning to the smell of fresh coffee brewing and breakfast being made. _Adam must have let himself in,_ Shiro thinks—and then he wonders, as he has been often lately, what Keith would think if he asked Adam to officially move in. There’s no way he would have been comfortable with that earlier this year—but maybe after New Year’s, they can start talking about it. 

Sure enough, Adam’s flipping bacon on the stove, dressed in the hideous Christmas sweater Shiro had gifted him two years prior. Keith is sitting at the table, looking still mostly asleep, but his cup of coffee is clutched in a death grip. 

“Good morning,” Shiro yawns. He ruffles Keith’s hair as he passes, laughing quietly at his sleepy scowl before pressing a kiss to Adam’s cheek. Adam hums a pleasant, “Good morning,” and then, “You’d better get some coffee fast before the teenager drinks it all.” 

“‘m not gonna drink it all,” Keith grouses. “I don’t even _drink_ that much coffee.” 

Shiro exchanges an amused glance with Adam. He pours his own coffee immediately, sits down to drink it at the table with Keith. Only a couple minutes later, he watches Keith get up to pour a second cup, and then top it with an atrocious amount of sugar and whipped cream—Keith will drink it any way, but for some ungodly reason, he likes it best when it’s more _sugar_ than coffee. He finally starts to wake up as Adam sets the food on the table, and looks fully alert by the time his mug is empty again. 

“What d’you guys do for Christmas, anyway?” he asks, plucking up a piece of bacon to begin tearing into thin shreds. “I mean, I probably should’ve asked that before actual Christmas . . .” he muses, then sits up suddenly, brows creasing as he adds, a little anxious, “We don’t have to go anywhere, right?” 

Shiro shakes his head, hoping to calm Keith’s anxiety before it can build. “Not this year,” he begins. “Though, up to this year, we always used to visit my grandmother on Christmas. But . . .” He lets the sentence drift off as understanding clicks in Keith’s face. “This year, I guess we’re sort of winging it. We’ll probably just stay here, eat a lot of food, do presents, watch movies . . . That sound okay?” 

“Yeah, sure.” Keith shrugs, shifting his attention back to his food. With his bacon completely mangled, he moves on to doing the same to his pancakes. “What about your family?” he says to Adam.

“We usually do New Year’s in New York with them,” Adam explains, “but this year they’re on a cruise.” He rolls his eyes. “Why they thought that would be a good idea is beyond me. People are even more horrible than usual during the holidays—who would _ever_ want to be on a boat with a bunch of strangers during Christmas when you could be home, doing literally anything else?” 

“That does sound horrible,” Keith agrees. It’s possible that Shiro’s reading too much into his minute expressions, but he thinks his shoulders slouch a little with relief. The rest of breakfast passes quietly, but not uncomfortably so. In fact, everything feels peaceful, in the familiar kind of quiet that only people who are truly comfortable with each other can feel—at least, until Adam gets up to put his plate in the sink. 

Keith’s chair scrapes across the linoleum with a harsh _scrttch!_ as he stands up, clutching his own plate of barely-eaten food so tightly that his knuckles turn white as he says, “I can get the dishes.” 

Adam eyes him for a long moment, then at his plate, before glancing to Shiro with an uncertain frown. “You’re still eating, Keith,” he points out cautiously. “It’s fine, seriously. I can take care of my own plate.” 

Keith doesn’t look any more convinced by Adam’s assurance than he ever does when Shiro tries to tell him the same thing. “I’m done eating,” he insists. It’s hard to tell, but he’s shifting his weight from foot to foot, as if he’s nervous. “I can get them.” 

Adam hesitates a moment longer, lips pursed, before reluctantly nodding and handing the plate over. He meets Shiro’s eyes as he reaches to pluck up his coffee mug and leave the kitchen; a moment after Adam has retreated into the living room, he says, “We’re going to go ahead and set up a movie and stuff, okay?” 

“Okay.” Keith is setting the pan Adam had used to scramble eggs into the sink to soak. “I’ll be there in a minute.” 

In the living room, Adam is scrolling to find a movie they haven’t already watched. “I always feel so bad about letting him do that,” he murmurs, so there’s no chance of him overhearing in the kitchen. “But it’s even worse to watch him get so anxious.” 

Shiro sighs, sinking down onto the opposite end of the couch. “I know.”

“Has he told you anything else?” Adam says—voice filled to the brim with false nonchalance. He keeps his gaze on the TV; the light flickers across his glasses. “About—you know.” 

Shiro shakes his head. He glances at the doorway to make sure Keith hasn’t suddenly materialized there, then sighs again. “No. He shuts down any time I try to bring it up. Or he changes the subject. Or he leaves his room to make a pot of coffee and then doesn’t come back. I’m—starting to get really worried.” 

Adam’s mouth tenses, nearly imperceptibly. “He just needs time,” he says. 

“I know,” Shiro repeats. Still, _knowing_ that doesn’t make him feel any less anxious. Keith’s continued silence has just given him more time to envision the worst; he’s memorized nearly every word of Keith’s file by now, and all of the blanks, his brain is more than happy to fill in for him with all kinds of possibilities. Some days he gets so stuck on them that he wants to wrap Keith up in blankets, sit him on the couch with all the sugary coffee he wants, and never let him leave the apartment again.

But that, he thinks, would definitely be the opposite of helping Keith. Keith needs . . . _normalcy,_ and hiding away is the opposite of that. He should definitely see a therapist, too, but Shiro has no idea how he could possibly go about bringing that up. Everything surrounding Keith is wrapped up in so many painful, complex layers, and Shiro never knows which one is going to accidentally peel back skin along with it and leave Keith bleeding. 

Shiro thought, when he took Keith in, that he knew what he was in for. But now that he’s this deep in it, he realizes that _no_ amount of foster-parenting classes or counseling sessions could have prepared him for _this._ He never has any clue what the _fuck_ he’s supposed to be doing. He worries that he’s doing everything wrong. 

“I know what you’re thinking,” Adam sighs. “Stop. Doubting yourself isn’t going to help him any.” 

“I . . . I know that,” Shiro repeats, a third time. He _does_ know that. Or—he thinks he does. 

“Know what?” Keith suddenly says, padding into the room to bodily collapse on the arm chair. Adam glances at him briefly before returning to scrolling. 

“That Hallmark movies suck,” he says smoothly. Shiro stiffens in offense immediately, while Keith snickers. 

“Yeah,” he says, “Glad you’re finally seeing the light, Shiro.” 

“I am not,” Shiro denies. “I will not. I will love Hallmark movies until the day I die.” 

Adam rolls his eyes. “Unfortunately. But whatever, I guess we can put it on,” he squints at the TV, _“‘The Nine Lives of Christmas’_ while we unwrap presents. Since that means we won’t have to pay attention to it.” 

_Presents._ Shiro forgets about the movie debate instantly. “I’ll go ahead and start sorting those out.” 

Adam turns on the lights while Keith further molds himself into the chair, disinterestedly alternating his attention between the opening credits of the movie and watching Shiro stack three different piles of gifts. Adam plucks his up to set on the coffee table, and then Shiro’s next to it. 

“Okay,” Shiro says, slowly exhaling as he gathers up Keith’s smaller stack, moving to set them on the edge of the coffee table nearest to the boy. “I know you said you didn’t want anything, but Adam and I wanted to get you at least something, because—it’s _Christmas._ If you don’t like them, that’s okay, we can always take them back, but—” 

The longer Shiro talks, the more Keith sits up, posture going rigid as he hones in on the stack of presents, a dark cloud descending on his expression. “I told you I didn’t want anything,” he says. His voice is smooth, carefully blank—the kind of blank that you can _sense_ has something heavier there, just beneath the surface. But Shiro can’t figure out _what._

He falters. “I . . . yeah, I know. But you—you don’t have to feel like you’re not allowed to ask for things, Keith. It’s not any trouble to—” 

“Take them back,” Keith cuts him off. His hands are curling into fists in his lap—almost as if he’s preparing himself for a fight. “I don’t want them,” he repeats, “Take them back.” 

Shiro’s brows furrow, and he glances to Adam to see if he understands what’s happening any better than him, but he looks just as lost. Shiro turns back to Keith. He’s still fixated on the presents on the table like he’s expecting them to come alive and attack him. 

“Don’t you . . . don’t you want to at least open them, to see if there’s something you like first?” he tries, even though he’s half-sure before the words even leave his mouth that it’s the wrong thing to say. 

It was definitely the wrong thing to say. Keith’s eyes ignite, at once, with flames of smoldering _anger,_ writing itself all over his face as he says, _“No.”_ He stands, visibly trembling as he backs away, and Shiro is frozen as his hand catches on the doorway, stilling himself just long enough to spit out, “I don’t _want_ your _stupid fucking presents, Shiro,”_ and then spins on his heel. A moment later, his bedroom door slams shut with so much force that it rattles the frame down the hall. 

“I . . .” Shiro turns back to Adam, rattled himself. His hands are shaking, so he has to set down the stack of Keith’s gifts, and he asks, “What—what did I do wrong?” 

“I don’t know,” Adam says. Theres a worried frown pulling at the corners of his mouth as he stares at the empty doorway. “But you’d better go find out.” 

Heart heavy with the weight that he _has_ definitely messed up, but knowing he needs to fix it as quickly as possible, Shiro goes to do just that. 

  
  


_____

  
  


Shiro stands in front of Keith’s door with the largest mug he owns clutched in hand, filled to the brim with fresh coffee and topped with all the sugar Keith normally puts in it, along with half a packet of instant hot chocolate mix and a mountain of whipped cream. He hopes that it’s enough of a peace offering that Keith won’t slam the door in his face—that is, if he even opens it to begin with. 

He takes a deep breath, forces all of his questions and worries to the back of his mind, and quietly raps on the door. “Hey,” he softly says, “Can I come in?” 

There’s silence, for a moment, and then he hears shuffling on the other side of the door. Keith’s voice, rough and upset, is muffled when he says, “No. Go away, Shiro.”

He sounds like . . . he sounds like he’s _crying._ Shiro’s heart twinges painfully. He hesitates for a moment before tentatively enticing, “I . . . I have coffee?” 

Another moment passes in silence, and he’s almost _sure_ that Keith isn’t going to open the door—but then he hears the lock _snick,_ and the door opens onto Keith: face flushed, eyes red, eyelashes clumping together in places— _fuck,_ he’s been crying. 

Shiro holds out the coffee, and Keith reaches for it, backing away the moment the mug is secure in his hands until he’s standing in the center of the room, a good distance away. Shiro hesitantly wonders if he should follow him, but intuition tells him to stay where he is. Quietly, he says, “You want to tell me what that was about?” 

Keith doesn’t speak for a long minute; he fidgets, takes a small sip of his coffee. He gets whipped cream on his nose, and all of Shiro’s brotherly instincts rise up to urge, _wipe it away,_ but he doesn’t budge. And then—to his complete _horror,_ Keith’s face begins to crumple. 

“I-it, _it—”_ He bites his lip, as if physically trying to keep himself from falling apart. He gasps, clutches the mug closer to his chest, and finally chokes out, “I-it always . . . _always_ starts with the presents.” 

Shiro freezes. He doesn’t dare move a muscle. He doesn’t dare to _breathe._

Keith is visibly shaking again. It’s a miracle his coffee doesn’t spill. “I—I _know_ how this works, Shiro,” he bites out, “It’s like a _fucking_ algorithm. First, they’re _always_ nice to me. They give me stuff, and they act like it’s not a big deal and they’re doing it just because they’re nice, but no one’s _ever_ just nice. They do it because they want me to _like_ them, and trust them, so when things go bad I’ll keep my mouth shut, s-so I won’t say _no—”_ His voice cracks, fresh tears welling up, but none of them spill. Shiro feels like his own chest is splitting open. He feels so horrified that now, it’s not a willing choice not to breathe. He _can’t._

“Even—even _Sommers_ did it, Shiro.” He’s struggling to speak now, and Shiro can hear it; he can _hear_ how thin his voice is, spiderweb-delicate fractures spreading, coating every word he forces out. “You thought he was being nice when he used to bring me stuff at lunch—he figured out I liked Doritos and he started bringing them _every day,_ and I never took them because I _knew_ why he was doing it but he still _did it,_ and that’s why I don’t like them anymore—I didn’t get tired of them, I lied, it’s just that now when I look at them all I see is _him,_ he wasn’t being _nice,_ Shiro.” Keith’s eyes flash, hatred breaking through the pain, and Shiro feels it ricochet into his own stomach, twist it with revulsion. As if he _needed_ another reason to despise his old TA. And there’s a part of him, suddenly, that despises himself, too—a part of him that wonders: _how did I_ miss _all of this?_ and feels like an absolute fool, because he _shouldn’t have_ missed this. 

He’s been having nightmares about that night in the classroom; moments throughout the day where he has to stop and recollect himself when he remembers it was only a _minor inconvenience_ that even brought him there, that night. If he hadn’t forgotten his teacher’s guide book, if he hadn’t just _had a feeling_ because Keith was taking a little longer than he should have, he knows _exactly_ what would have happened to Keith in that room. And that would have been while he was _supposed to be_ under _Shiro’s_ supervision. 

Keith never should have been put in the situation he was put in to begin with, but the fact of the matter is, _Shiro_ is the one who should have been more perceptive. It’s _his_ job to make sure nothing happens to Keith while he’s with him, and something _did_ happen. And now he’s gone and made it even worse by not _listening_ to what Keith tried to tell him.

All of this flashes through his mind in the half-breath before Keith looks up at him, eyes dark and bright at once, painfully young and filled with an anguish that should be _too old_ for him, and he sniffles out, “And I just wanted . . . I just want you a-and Adam to be _different._ I don’t _want_ you to be like _every other_ fucking person in my life. Literally.” He laughs, the most dark and awful sound Shiro has _ever_ heard. Shiro doesn’t think he’s ever going to be able to unhear it. 

“Keith,” he says. His own voice is so thick that it hurts to speak. He shakes his head and chokes out, “That’s not . . . I _swear_ that’s not—Adam and I, we are _never_ going to do that to you. I—I know words might not mean much, but for what it’s worth—that’s a _promise._ We didn’t want to make you think . . . I’m— _so_ sorry. You said no presents, and I should have listened to you. That’s on me, okay? That’s _my_ fault, and I promise I’ll listen better next time. And if you want us to take the gifts back, we’ll take them back. Okay?” 

Keith stares at him for a long moment, lip almost imperceptibly trembling. And then—he nods, and Shiro feels like he can finally breathe. 

“Please take them back,” he whispers. “I don’t . . . I don’t want them. I don’t want . . .” 

He doesn’t finish the thought. Shiro doesn’t need him to. He nods, so much heartache welling up that he can’t _stand_ it. Looking at him, Shiro can’t even fathom how Keith has made it this long. After everything he’s been through . . . it’s a miracle that he’s even _here._

He’ll never stop being grateful that he found Keith. He’ll thank his lucky stars every night for the rest of his life. He thinks, sometimes, that he gets so caught up in how glad he is just to have him in his life that he forgets how easily he could have _missed_ him. It terrifies him to think about. He doesn’t want to think about where Keith would be if he wasn’t here. He never wants him to have to go anywhere else. 

“We’ll take them back,” he promises. “The presents aren’t important, okay? _You_ are. I’m sorry if I made you feel like you weren’t. I . . . I’ll do my best to listen better next time.” 

“Okay.” Keith sniffs sharply, eyes lowering to his coffee. The whipped cream has all melted into it, by now. “I . . . I’m sorry I overreacted, Shiro. I—” 

“No.” Shiro tries to never interrupt Keith, but he does now, shaking his head and insisting, “No, you have nothing to apologize for. None of this is your fault. You don’t have to be sorry.” 

Keith says nothing to that. He keeps his head down, and he looks so _small_ that it physically hurts to look at him. It fills Shiro with that same aching feeling in his chest, that itch in his fingers that wants to pull Keith close and hold him the way he imagines no one has in so long. No one was ever there to just _hold him,_ when all of those awful things were happening. But Keith’s never reached for him before; Shiro doesn’t know if it’s something he’ll ever want from him. And Shiro understands if he doesn’t—he understands that there are a lot of things he _doesn’t_ understand, and he never will. But still, he can’t stop himself from asking, whispered so softly he wonders if Keith can even hear him—“Can I . . . can I hug you?” 

Keith jerks his head up, eyes dark and unreadable as he stares at Shiro. He seems unsure of how to respond, so after a moment, Shiro opens his mouth to reassure him, “You can say no—” 

“Okay.” Something steely enters Keith’s eyes, tenses his jaw as he nods. He takes a few steps back, never turning away from Shiro, so he can set the mug down on his desk. And then he nods again, crosses his arms stiffly over his chest, and says, “Yeah.” 

Shiro pauses. “Are . . . are you—sure?” 

“Yeah.” Keith shifts, looking away. “Just—no one’s hugged me in a long time, so . . . sorry if I’m bad at it.” 

Shiro has to take a deep breath, at that, to keep all of his emotions in check, pushed down to be dealt with later. He takes careful steps into the room, slow and measured, so Keith can be aware of every movement as he draws close. He doesn’t falter until he’s right in front of him, and there he hesitates; Keith is still looking to his left, staring tensely at the wall, hardly acknowledging Shiro at all. 

Wrapping Keith in his arms is a slow, painstaking process. Keith remains stiff as Shiro tucks his close, cautiously adding the slightest bit of pressure. His heart is racing, anxiously reminding him that he _can’t_ mess this up; he hopes that Keith can’t feel it. The last thing he wants to do is scare Keith away. 

There’s a long, tense moment before Keith hesitantly unwinds his arms from his own chest to loop around Shiro’s back, and there he grips tightly, burying his face in the front of Shiro’s sweater. He breathes in shakily, and Shiro can feel it, where his hand rests over Keith’s spine. 

Shiro’s own exhale is unsteady as he closes his eyes, reaching to settle his other hand at the back of Keith’s head. He feels so small in his arms—like something breakable, something delicate that’s already been bruised and cracked, messily glued back together too many times by trembling hands. Keith, he can feel, is trembling, just a little. Just enough to feel, but not enough to see if he let him go. 

Shiro holds him tighter. “I can’t—” His voice is too rough with emotion, so he clears it and tries again, “I can’t promise that I’m never going to make mistakes, Keith. I’m—I _am_ going to make mistakes. But I . . . I hope you can be patient with me, and forgive me when I do, because I want to be here for you. And something I _can_ promise is that I—I will never, _ever_ hurt you. You will _always_ be safe with me.” 

Keith next inhale is audibly more wet than the last; he nods into Shiro’s sweater, clings to him more tightly. In the silence, they breathe together, and Shiro’s heart finally slows down as he holds Keith closer; peace settles over him as he vows to himself, _this_ is a promise he can keep. He’s here, and _he_ has Keith, now, and he’s never going anywhere. _I’m here, I’m here, I’m here._

He thinks—he hopes—that maybe, _maybe,_ Keith is beginning to believe it, too. 

  
  


_____

  
  


A little while later, Shiro pads back into the living room to find a trash bag filled with wadded-up wrapping paper, and a distinct lack of one pile of presents. Adam sits on the couch, staring blankly at the TV screen until he hears Shiro enter. 

“The stuff’s in my car,” he tells him, “I’ll take it all back tomorrow.” 

Shiro collapses, feeling far too heavy for his body to carry, beside him. “How much of that did you hear?” he tiredly asks. 

Adam’s jaw tightens. “Enough,” is all he says. Shiro nods, shuffles closer so he can rest his head on his shoulder. Adam’s fingers wind into his hair, tangling and detangling as they sit in the silence. It won’t last forever; Keith’s in the shower now, and though he’s prone to taking exceptionally long showers when he’s upset, Shiro promised him they could watch _The Nightmare Before Christmas_ when he gets out. 

“He said _they,_ Adam,” he eventually whispers—he can’t bring himself to speak any louder than that. “Like . . . like it’s become so _normal,_ like he just _accepts_ that that’s how people are. I—how _many_ people . . .?” He can’t bring himself to finish that thought. He feels sick. 

Adam’s fingers tighten in his hair. “Too many,” he says, “Too fucking many.”

They don’t have anything to say, after that. They rest in the quiet until they hear the bathroom door opening, and then they sit up, smoothing out their expressions. By the time Keith walks into the living room, Adam is standing up, and when he sees him in the doorway he says, “I was about to make some hot chocolate—the _real_ kind. You want some?” 

Keith looks better now, after some time to himself; he perks up, nods and wonders, “Are there still Christmas cookies, too?” 

“Of _course_ there’s still Christmas cookies,” Adam says. He follows Keith out of the room, and Shiro can still hear their voices as they fade into the kitchen. Shiro listens to the sound of them, closes his eyes as he breathes in and reminds himself: _he’s here now. He’s with you now. He’s safe here._ When he opens his eyes again, Adam is settling onto the couch beside him, and Keith is settling onto the other side, instead of the armchair where he usually sits. He’s tense at first, like a wary cat, but after a moment he settles down, curling up with his mug of hot chocolate and a half-eaten Christmas cookie held to his chest. Both are gone by the end of the opening scene of the movie, and he nudges himself close enough into Shiro’s space to brush their shoulders together. Quietly, he says, “I’m sorry I ruined Christmas, Shiro.” 

Shiro shakes his head immediately. “You didn’t,” he says, “You could never ruin anything, Keith. Okay?” 

Keith doesn’t say anything to that. Shiro worries that it’s because he doesn’t believe him, and he hopes that over time, Keith will begin to understand that he means it. And he hopes, that despite all the mistakes he’s made, and all the ones he’s sure he’ll make in the future, that Keith will be able to fully, completely trust him someday. 

Halfway through the movie, Keith’s head drops onto his shoulder—he’s dead asleep. Whether it’s all the emotion of the day, just a sugar crash, or maybe some disastrous conglomeration of both, Shiro is sure that Keith isn’t going anywhere, any time soon. He lifts the blanket he’d had draped over his lap to tuck up around Keith’s shoulders, gently places his arm around him to support him, and stays right there even long after the credits roll and Adam goes home. 

  
  


_____

  
  


“Okay,” Shiro sighs, a few mornings later. Keith has once again taken it upon himself to wash the dishes; a pattern, he understands, that isn’t going anywhere any time soon. Keith is meticulously organizing the silverware as he loads it into the dishwasher when he says, “Hey, Keith, can you come sit down a second? There’s something I wanted to talk about with you, just for a minute.” 

He notices the way Keith stiffens, and smoothly tacks on, “It _does_ kind of have to do with Christmas, but it’s nothing serious or bad, I promise.” 

Warily, Keith reclaims his seat at the table. “Am I in trouble?” he asks hesitantly. 

“No,” Shiro firmly says, “You aren’t. Just . . . there was kind of a reason why I wanted to get you Christmas presents. And I think I should tell you, because that reason hasn’t gone anywhere, even though the presents were . . . not the best way to go about it.” 

Keith looks torn between worry and confusion. _I_ really _need to work on my communication skills,_ Shiro laments, but it’s too late to fret over that now. He sighs, and decides to just get on with it—“It’s your shoes.” 

Keith blinks, face washing over with complete confusion, now. “My . . . my shoes?” 

“Yes,” Shiro says bluntly. “Your shoes, Keith. Your shoes are literally _falling apart,_ and I wanted to get you a new pair without making you feel like . . . I don’t know, like a burden. You _aren’t_ a burden, but I thought if I just got them for you, you would feel like you were. So I thought if I gave them to you in present-form—cleverly disguised by other presents, so you wouldn’t _know_ I really got them because you need them—then that would solve the problem. But it didn’t.” 

Subtle guilt etches onto Keith’s face—an expression Shiro is too used to seeing on him—and he opens his mouth like he’s about to apologize. Shiro shakes his head before he can. “It’s _not_ your fault, okay? I want to make that very clear. What happened was my mistake, and I know better now. But the thing is, you still need a new pair of shoes. So I’ve come up with another idea . . . that is, if you’re okay with it.” 

Keith shifts, but to Shiro’s relief, he looks slightly intrigued. “What?” he says. 

Shiro takes a deep breath. If Keith doesn’t go for this, he _genuinely_ has no idea what he’s going to do. “Listen,” he begins, “I appreciate everything you do around here. It’s . . . really nice of you, to wash dishes and vacuum and—and wash the windows.” Shiro still can’t get over the window thing. He washes them _weekly._ “But I think that you do all of those things because you feel like you have to earn your place here. Like if you don’t do enough, I’m going to make you leave. Am I wrong?” He carefully watches Keith’s reaction; he fidgets, looks down at his lap. Shiro sighs. 

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he says. “And it’s . . . not true, okay? I’m just glad to have you here, and that’s enough for me. You don’t _have_ to do all that extra stuff. But if you want to keep doing it, then I’d like to start giving you chore money.”

Keith blinks, like the words are an alien concept to him. “Chore . . . money?” he slowly says. “Like—an allowance?” 

“Kind of,” Shiro says. “Except kids don’t normally do chores for an allowance. Usually when parents—or guardians—give their kids allowances, they do it just because, I guess. But uh, when _I_ was growing up, my grandmother didn’t believe in that kind of thing. So whenever some new video game came out that all my friends got with their allowances, I always had to do chores for it. Picture short ten-year-old me standing on three pillows stacked on a chair so I could dust the ceiling fans and wash the blinds, all so I could buy the new _Zelda._ My grandmother said it would teach me how to be _‘fiscally responsible.’_ I had no idea what that meant. Again, I was ten.”

Keith does break out one of his small, rare grins at that. “So you’re turning into your grandmother,” he summarizes. 

“Essentially,” he agrees, with a small smile of his own. “But this way, you won’t have to feel like I’m just— _giving_ you things. Anything you buy with that money will be completely yours. Would you . . . be okay with that?” 

Keith is quiet for a long moment, thinking it over. And then he says, “Yeah, alright.” 

Shiro’s smile widens slightly, as he’s flooded with a rush of victory and relief. “Good,” he says, “You have to promise that the first thing you’ll buy is a new pair of shoes, though.” 

“Hmm, I don’t know . . .” Keith pretends to think it over, a lot less serious, now. “I mean, the new _Zelda_ game _just_ came out. . . .” 

“Wait, has it?” Shiro pauses. “Since when is there a new _Zelda?”_ He hates that he can’t tell whether Keith’s grin is joking or not. “I _hate_ being old,” he laments, and lowers his head to the table to groan into the wood, “Now I have to worry about _work,_ and _taxes,_ and being _fiscally responsible._ Never grow up, Keith. It might sound great at first, but it’s a scam. A hoax. A _trap.”_

When Keith laughs, it’s quiet, yet it still fills the entire apartment with life. Miraculous, musical notes fill even the darkest corners of every room; it’s one of those moments where Shiro feels like maybe, possibly, he _isn’t_ completely failing as Keith’s guardian. As long as he can keep him laughing, he thinks, all hope _isn’t_ lost. 

They’re still a long way from total trust, and he thinks an even longer way from the day that Keith will consider him family in the way Shiro’s already claimed him. But he knows that they’ll get there. One day, Keith’s laughter won’t be such a rare sound, and Shiro looks forward to that day with every ounce of hope within him. 

For now, though, this day is enough. Having Keith here and safe—even knowing there are just as many bad days as good up ahead, even though he knows this is a hard-earned conversation, just like so many after this one will be—just this day with him is worth more than any amount of freely given gifts. Maybe the fact that it _isn’t_ a gift—that it’s something they’ve worked for, something they _deserve—_ that makes it all the more valuable. 

_Yeah,_ Shiro thinks, with soft, familial _affection_ blooming in the branches of his ribcage as Keith gets up to resume the dishes, his quiet humming filling up the atmosphere that would be empty without him. He is certain that there isn’t a single thing in the universe that he would trade for this moment, right here. 


End file.
